Colours Aloft! by Alexander Kent Page A

already knew the answers to both questions. It was madness. I must be mad.
    It seemed to mock him and he was suddenly grateful to see the sky once again.
    Lieutenant Hector Stayt leaned over the table and placed another copy of Bolitho’s orders for his signature. They would be passed to all the other captains when they finally anchored at Gibraltar. That would be in two days’ time if the wind remained in their favour. It had been a long, empty week since the incident aboard Orontes, but now, as the small squadron steered to the south-east with the Spanish coastline from Cadiz to Algeciras barely visible to the most keen-eyed lookout, the passage was almost over.
    Bolitho glanced over Yovell’s round handwriting before putting his own signature at the bottom. The same orders but each would be interpreted differently by the captains who read them. Once in the Mediterranean there would be neither time nor opportunity to get to know his officers nor they him.
    He thought of Keen and his visits to their unexpected passenger. The French builders had allowed an extra chart space abaft the master’s cabin, and this had been made as comfortable as possible for the girl Zenoria Carwithen. A cot, a mirror, some clean sheets from the wardroom had somehow transformed it. Ozzard had even managed to discover a spare officer’s commode in the hold and had installed it for her use. They must not get too fond of the idea of having her aboard, he thought. Once at the Rock . . .
    Stayt said, “I did hear something about that girl, Sir Richard.”
    It was not the first time the flag-lieutenant had seemed to read Bolitho’s thoughts. It was unnerving and irritating.
    â€œAnd?” Bolitho looked up from the table.
    Stayt sounded almost indifferent now that he had his admiral’s attention.
    â€œOh, she was mixed up in a riot of some kind, I understand. It was near to my father’s property. Someone was murdered before the military arrived.” He gave a thin smile. “Late as usual.”
    Bolitho looked past him at the swords on their rack. One so bright and gleaming, the other almost shabby by comparison.
    Stayt took his silence for interest. “Her father was hanged.”
    Bolitho dragged out his watch and opened the guard. “Time to exercise the squadron’s signals, Mr Stayt. I’ll be up directly.”
    Stayt left. He had a springy walk; it seemed to show his great self-confidence.
    Bolitho frowned. Conceit anyway.
    Yovell moved to the table and gathered up the papers. He glanced at Bolitho over his small gold spectacles and said, “It wasn’t quite like that, Sir Richard.”
    Bolitho looked at him. “Tell me. I’d like to hear it. From you.”
    Yovell smiled sadly. “Carwithen was a printer, sir. A fine one, I’m told. Some of the farmworkers asked him to print some handbills, a sort of protest it was, about two landowners who had been keeping them short of money and chattels. Carwithen was a bit of a firebrand by all accounts, believed in speaking his mind, especially when others were being wronged.” He flushed but Bolitho nodded.
    â€œSpeak as you will, man.”
    It was strange that Yovell should know. He lived at the Bolitho house when he was ashore, but he was a Devonian, a “foreigner” as far as local folk were concerned. Yet he always seemed to know about the people around him.
    â€œCarwithen’s wife had died previous to that, so they sent the girl out of the county.”
    â€œTo Dorset?”
    â€œAye sir, that were it.”
    So something else must have happened since the “riot” as Stayt had described it.
    He heard the trill of calls from the quarterdeck as the signalling party were mustered under Stayt’s eagle eye. Signals, especially in battle, should be few, short and precise.
    Bolitho made up his mind and said, “Fetch Allday.”
    Allday glanced questioningly at the secretary as they